


you hurt the ones you love (I don't believe that)

by troiing



Series: I like me a season 5 full of lady love [4]
Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-04-23 22:59:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4895596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troiing/pseuds/troiing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlotte's father dies.  Helen doesn't tell her until after the funeral.  Accidental hurts, bad decision-making, and angst (and a visit to Charlotte's mom) ensue.</p><p>“You couldn’t have known,” she musters.  Helen is angry, guilty, and she doesn’t understand - until Helen lifts her gaze again with a meaningful look.  She stares for a moment, dumbfounded, and swallows against rising bile.  “You knew?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. you hurt the ones you love

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine that when Charlotte met Will after finding Old City, one of the first things they did was plan her "death," mainly for her family's protection. This is set relatively soon after she comes to the Hollow Earth Sanctuary - within the year. As far as everyone knows, her parents included, Charlotte Benoit is dead at this point. Helen and Charlotte have got a pretty comfortable relationship going, but haven't really had the opportunity to mess anything up... until now.
> 
> I don't know yet how many chapters this'll have, but they'll likely all be fairly short.

“What is it, Helen?”

“Nothing.”

The response is too quick, a snappish dismissal, and Charlotte watches quietly for a moment while Helen leans over her desk as if in intense concentration. But she’s been around Helen long enough to know better. Her gaze softens to accompany the quiet plea in her voice when she takes a step forward.

“Helen, it’s never nothing. Not when you talk like that, or - or argue over some meaningless bullshit.’

Helen lifts her brows, jutting her chin out a little to watch Charlotte, then ducks her head down again. Pen still poised between her fingers, she presses her knuckles against her forehead.

“Helen? If there’s anything I can do…”

“There isn’t.”

Charlotte lowers herself into the nearest chair, leaning across the desk to try to catch Helen’s eye. “Please.”

Helen isn’t meek; it doesn’t suit her. But as she scratches out notes in black ballpoint, the tight line of her mouth shifts and her eyes soften. Charlotte glances at the notepad - upside down and unreadable from her angle, but she can see the broken lines. Helen’s penmanship is usually exquisite cursive, though beyond that, she’s not sure what the messy print means. Her gaze flickers upward again, and Helen meets her eyes for a moment.

“Your father’s dead,” she says abruptly, and the pen stops.

Charlotte has never imagined that Helen could be so frigid. She watches, silent, and blinks back sudden tears.

“An accident,” Helen clarifies more softly, chancing to meet Charlotte’s eyes. At Charlotte’s continued silence, she lowers her gaze. “The funeral was today.” She pauses again, and then adds quietly: “I’m sorry.”

Charlotte swipes her knuckles across her eyes, brushing away tears as she slumps back in her seat. “You couldn’t have known,” she musters, shaking her head. Helen is angry, guilty, and she doesn’t understand - until Helen lifts her gaze again with a meaningful look.

She stares for a moment, dumbfounded, and swallows against rising bile. “You knew?” Her back curls into her chair as Helen tilts her brow into her hands.

“It was too dangerous for you to go, Charlotte,” Helen says, still quiet, but vehement. “But if you had asked, I would have let you. I couldn’t - ”

“Helen, you - ”

“I’m sorry,” she says again, forceful as everything she does, like the words will quell Charlotte into submission. “I’m sorry.” She means it, but doesn’t know how to say so; somehow, deep down, Charlotte knows this. But it doesn’t change anything.

“You’re - ” The words stick, heavy in her throat, the sense of betrayal even heavier on her chest, and Charlotte pushes out of the chair. “Nevermind.”

Helen hardly dares to watch her as she leaves the room.


	2. i'm a glass half-empty girl

“What do you want?”

Helen ignores the question as she takes a single step into the room, surveying the evidence of Charlotte’s hasty packing. “What are you doing, Charlotte?”

Shoving a shirt into her bag, the same one that had carried everything she could take with her when she fled Madagascar a year and a half ago, Charlotte glares. “My dad’s dead. Mom thinks I’m dead, and you can’t even be honest with me. I’m starting to think this isn’t where I’m supposed to be.” Her eyes are dry, but she sniffs, tucking a few items further into the small suitcase’s pockets. “I’m going to see her.”

“Charlotte.”

“We’ll see if I come back or not.”

Helen purses her lips, fighting the urge to fidget as she keeps her hands clasped in front of her. “I can’t let you go, Charlotte,” she says, barrelling on as Charlotte casts a dark look on her, “not like this.” Her own expression is quelling when she adds: “I’ve already arranged for a secure meeting with your mother. We leave tomorrow.”

Charlotte scoffs at that, standing upright and glaring balefully at Helen. “If you think something like this makes up - ”

“Charlotte, you have to know that it was - ”

“No. _Listen_ ,” Charlotte hisses, slamming the suitcase shut. “I understand the danger involved. But you kept me completely in the dark.” She’s going to say more, or planned to, but the volume and venom rising in her own voice catch her off guard.

The silence that passes is uncomfortable, stifling.

“I’m sorry,” is the only thing Helen can think of to break it. Another apology, eyes dark and sincere. “I never intended to hurt you.”

“Yeah, well, good intentions don’t mean much, do they?” Charlotte replies, and Helen’s gaze falls. She watches her for a while before speaking again. “You said ‘we’.” Her tone demands information.

“You and I, yes.” Helen meets her eye again, the edge of her mouth lifting into a hollow smile.

“I don’t want you to come.”

“I’m afraid you won’t have a choice in the matter,” Helen replies tersely, challenging Charlotte to argue with her. “I don’t trust any other single operatives at my disposal on such short notice to accompany you.”

“To be my watchdog, you mean,” Charlotte says dismissively, looking at anything but Helen.

Helen is quiet for a moment. “ _I mean,_ ” she begins softly, “to protect you. And your mother.” When Charlotte’s mouth draws into a tight line, she sighs. “Charlotte, if you had something I wanted, and I thought there was _any_ chance at all you might be alive to give it to me, despite all evidence otherwise, I’d look for you at an event like your father’s funeral, or in your mother’s company afterwards. I regret my actions. Deeply. Please just trust me now.”

Another stretch of silence passes before Charlotte grimly meets her gaze again. After a moment, she finally deflates a little, but not enough for comfort. “Fine,” she says hollowly. “I trust you.”

“Good,” Helen murmurs, nodding; she’ll take what Charlotte gives. “Tomorrow morning.”

“When?”

“Early. Get some rest.”


	3. i thought love leaves bruises

“If you’re sure this is so dangerous, why is it just the two of us?”

It’s not that Charlotte hasn’t thought over this yet. She knows there’s a good reason, and hasn’t much felt like making conversation despite her curiosity.

“We have support from afar,” Helen assures, making a right hand turn in the borrowed car and stepping on the gas to clear the vehicle behind them.

“Has anybody ever told you you’re a _really_ bad driver?”

“There are eyes all over the building,” Helen continues as if Charlotte hadn’t interrupted, though her lips tug into a sardonic half-smile. “Doesn’t mean you might not need a quick and quiet extraction.”

“What a shame that nobody else in the whole damn network knows how to drive a car and use the back door,” Charlotte needles, rolling her eyes and shooting a look at Helen. She’s still smiling, and although it’s bitter, the look has Charlotte bristling. Two days underground, all in close quarters with Helen hasn’t given her time to cool down. “Maybe if Ashley were around, she could have done the job?” The words sit heavy on her chest even as she says them, regretting every syllable. She doesn’t mean them, but as she watches Helen’s jaw tense, she barrels on through, hating herself for wanting Helen to hurt. “Or is this just about you and me?”

“How dare you?” Helen demands too loudly, knuckles white against the steering wheel. She’s taken Charlotte’s anger in stride until now, hovering somewhere between apologetic and pragmatic, but the words strike hard and fast against her defenses. “Ashley is _none_ of your business.” That’s not true. It’s the opposite of true, but they’re the only words she can muster that even begin to touch the betrayal she feels in that moment.

Charlotte scoffs openly, making a show of the anger, feeding its flame. “You made her my business when you told me about her!”

“Why would you ask if you didn’t want to know?” Helen demands, matching Charlotte’s volume. She watches her, tears stinging her eyes, and Charlotte looks away just in time to spot oncoming traffic in the path of Helen’s drift.

“Watch the fucking road!” It brings Helen to her senses enough to maintain her lane, gritting her teeth as the car jerks to the side. Charlotte slumps into her seat. “Jesus Christ. You know what, just…” She’s quieter now, wants to apologize, but the anger wins over. “Fuck you,” she mutters, expression dark. “Don’t talk to me.”

Helen responds with a bark of bitter laughter, fighting the urge to take her eyes off the road again. “Oh. Alright, yes. That’s very mature.”

“Coming from you?” Charlotte asks, a knee-jerk reaction to Helen’s berating. “What are you now, _two hundred and seventy-five_?” She enunciates each syllable, like if she doesn’t there might be some misunderstanding. “I’m 38 years old, Helen, I’m sorry I can’t live up to your totally inhuman standards!”

“I don’t expect you to act beyond your years and you know it, Charlotte.” Everything about Helen is tense, from her voice to the press of her palms against the steering wheel. Even this strikes a nerve, and Charlotte sneers at Helen without actually looking at her. 

“Of course not, and - ”

“You know what? You’re right,” Helen says suddenly, interrupting Charlotte's thoughts. “We need to stop talking.”

Charlotte almost, almost laughs. “Really, because I think we’re getting to something - ”

Helen's hand strikes the wheel hard, surprising both of them with a quick blast of the horn. “STOP. Talking.”

Part of Charlotte thinks they're getting somewhere, somewhere dangerous and honest, but very dark and dishonest as well. The small part of her that still wants at least some semblance of peace between them doesn't want to know what that honest place will reveal. “Fine.”

Helen swallows hard, and neither of them speak for what feels like hours. 

“How much longer?” Charlotte finally asks, voice rough with disuse. Dumb silence answers. “Helen. How much longer?”

“Soon,” Helen says flatly. A sideways glance shows her staring hard at the road ahead, like it's the only thing left in the world. 

Charlotte sighs. The silence is suffocating. Truth be told, things are starting to feel claustrophobic. “You said that yesterday when we were underground.”

“And we arrived at our gateway within the hour.”

“I don’t want to be in the car with you for another hour,” Charlotte says tartly, no longer clinging to the anger from earlier, but not much interested in concealing her irritation either. 

“That’s fine,” Helen snaps. “You won’t have to be.”

“What about after?” Charlotte asks. Helen has been anything but forthcoming so far, but Charlotte hasn’t exactly gone digging either. She’s ready for more information. “Where are we going; what’s the situation?”

Helen buffs the steering wheel with her palm, watching the vehicle ahead of her. “Your mother's already there. We have two bedrooms, two baths, and a fully stocked kitchen in connected suites. There won’t be any reason to leave.”

Two bedrooms for three people isn't the first thing Charlotte wants to hear. The idea of being cooped up with Helen any longer, stewing in hurt and anger, is somewhat nauseating. “So who’s bunking together?” she asks, almost crying for the rekindled anger. It’s a cold anger this time though, chilling her bones without bleeding out, and she swallows it as she furrows her brows at Helen.

Helen glances sideways at her, and for the first time in two days, her expression is soft. “I never intended to share your bed, no matter where we stood,” she says, a quiet, sad sort of bitterness in her tone. She clears her throat, shaking her head a little when she turns her attention wholly back to the road. “I won’t disturb anyone else being up late if I sleep on the sofa.”

Charlotte inhales sharply, then tilts her head back against the headrest. She finds a single imperfect spot on the headliner and focuses on it. “Right.”

Again, they fall silent, and they do not speak until they’ve reached their destination. It's nothing extravagant, but extravagance isn't something either of them are looking for. The sick feeling comes again when they stand at the counter, Helen's arm around Charlotte's waist. Charlotte wonders briefly how late Helen stayed up before they left the Sanctuary practicing the Québécois dialect; her French is good, the accent more than passable. Had she slept at all that night?

Guilt and anger and hurt keep Charlotte’s head spinning as they make their way towards the suite. Sensing the need - not want, but need - Helen keeps a firm hand at Charlotte’s back to steady her until they arrive.

Anna Benoit is there, as promised, and when she turns to face them, she looks every bit like she’s seen a ghost.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure y'all won't mind this chapter being a little longer, right? The first section here is what took so long to write; figured since I'd been sitting on the finished product for a couple weeks without actually editing it, it was probably time to post...

“Charlotte!”

Charlotte is startled to realize that she had almost, _almost_ forgotten the sound of her mother’s voice. Had it really only taken a year and a half to purge that particular quiet lilt from her mind? Anna Benoit is, by Charlotte’s reckoning, Québécoise to her core, but the melodic variability of her tone has always reaffirmed her Chinese roots, in a way. She has a pleasant voice, and a telling one; it’s nearly impossible _not_ to discern her moods when she speaks.

She doesn’t speak again, but her arms when she throws them around Charlotte’s shoulders are just as telling.

“I’m sorry,” Charlotte says roughly, clinging to her just as fiercely. “I’m sorry, mom, I’m so sorry.”

Anna is two inches shorter than Charlotte, with a loose braid of pitch-black hair stretching down the arch of her body nearly to her thighs, but Charlotte is the very picture of her, a twenty-year-younger replica chiseled into long, sharp lines. Almost breakable, but fierce. Narrow fingers. Cheekbones like weapons. Identical in every other way but one.

It’s that difference that Helen notices first - not her voice, not even the striking resemblance, not really, though the observation files itself away for later thought; it’s her eyes. Black as coal and sharp as knives. Intelligent, quick as twin vipers. She gives Helen a single swift look over Charlotte’s shoulder in the silence that passes, and Helen has the uncharacteristic urge to shy away from the gaze. Anna does not trust the woman she does not know; this is as obvious as the muddle of grief and joy she doesn’t bother to conceal. She’s torn between the bittersweet joy of reunion and keen distrust, and it’s only that uncertain vacillation that makes her momentary scrutiny bearable.

Suddenly, Charlotte laughs. Mirthlessly and only for a beat, but she laughs nevertheless, wrapping her arms all the more tightly around Anna for a moment before relaxing her embrace. “God, I missed you.”

They part after a span - a step back, a tiny dance of regret. Anna frames Charlotte’s face with her hands; Charlotte closes her fingers around Anna’s wrists. “I love you,” Anna says. Fiercely. Brandishes her love like both sword and shield. Charlotte grips her wrists a little tighter, but turns out of her touch when Anna cuts her eyes over to Helen again.

“I love you too, Mom,” she says after a moment, giving Anna’s hand a squeeze. “Mom, this is - ” Their eyes catch, and Helen sees exhaustion and the edge of regret. Charlotte sighs. Sniffs. Scuds tears from her eyes with her palm before clearing her throat. “Uh, this is Helen, Mom.”

“Helen Bancroft,” Helen adds, extending her right hand with a bare, brief smile even as Charlotte’s eyes flash with distrust.

Anna takes her hand firmly, but there is no welcome for Helen in her expression. “Anna Benoit. I… assume you are responsible for getting Charlotte here.” Helen gazes squarely at her while Anna’s hand tightens around her own, eyes dark and fierce despite the wetness in them. “And for keeping her away?”

Helen forces a smile. “I’m afraid there is no easy answer to that question,” she murmurs. “I think Charlotte should explain.

“I’ll - ” Helen pauses, glancing between the two women momentarily. So alike, and so distanced. “I’ll be getting our things.”

They have only just settled onto the couch, reminiscing over family memories, when she returns. Charlotte’s apparent resurrection has suddenly become the last thing on their minds. The last time the three of them - Anna, Charlotte, and Sacha Benoit - had sat down to a meal together is at the forefront. The jokes Sacha had made. Discussion of Charlotte’s recent research and her next day flight. The antics of a particular student in a class Anna had taught that day.

It’s strange, remembering something so vividly when it is so long past.

Charlotte asks questions, slowly becoming more animated. Anna is malleable. She talks about the university, cousins and aunts and uncles, and Sacha’s accident. She talks about everything Charlotte wants to talk about, and Charlotte says very little to shed light on the events that have led to their meeting. Helen has long since retired into the empty bedroom, presumably to unpack, when Anna finally presses Charlotte for information.

There are long spans of silence as Charlotte describes what led them here, omitting many details that feel like key elements. For all that she’s angry, she can’t bring herself to reveal more than is necessary. She describes the first several weeks in Madagascar, her work there. The severity of the virus she had been sent to study. The sense that something was not right. How she had known the research could not continue, and how her benefactors had pressed, unreasonable, when she had tried to end the project via the most obvious connections. Meeting Helen, then Richard. Thinking it was over. Fleeing when it had become evident that it was anything but. Finding Helen again - a conveniently-placed lie indicating that they’d exchanged numbers before leaving Comoros.

From there, it’s more or less the truth. Helen is in research - highly private, very fringe medical research. With connections.

“It sounds like you fell back into the same trap,” Anna remarks at this revelation, furrowing her brows a little. Charlotte understands that the question is more than a test of her resolve or intentions; it’s a feeler. Anna wants more information, and this is a safe way to get it.

“No, not at all,” Charlotte corrects, shaking her head a little defensively. For herself and for Helen both. “Helen’s work is mostly about observation. And protection. If something like the virus I was studying came up, they’d snuff it out as soon as they were able to.” At Anna’s long look, Charlotte sighs. “I’m sorry, I… I can’t get into the work. But I promise, Mom, I’ve seen everything there is to see, and every bit of it exists to help people, not to hurt them. And not to help some greater good at the expense of a few either. I mean really, truly, to help people.”

“Okay.” Anna trails off, then sighs. “So where do you fit in?”

Charlotte shrugs, thinking. “I do a little bit of everything. Things come up, and a background in virology or immunology is needed at times, but a lot of the people we work with have multiple skills. I’m… I’m sorry; I don’t know how much more I should say. Um… we have field operatives though. And Helen does almost as much of that as she does on the medicine and science side of things. That’s… why she’s here, I guess. There wasn’t really anybody else available to come.”

They’re both silent for a while, and Charlotte heaves a breath, rolling the last few days over in her mind. Anna finally purses her lips, and the grief returns to her eyes, though she does her best to hold it down. “Why now, Charlotte?” she asks almost in a whisper. “Why not for the funeral? Why are we meeting in a hotel a week later?”

Charlotte bites her tongue at the question, staring down at her hands. Anger flares up at the thought, but more distant. She quashes it with resolve, clearing her throat. “I don’t know, Mom, I… It’s still dangerous, you know? Helen’s got a better grasp on the logistics, but with Dad’s death, and… and I guess now’s a prime time to be looking for a lost asset.” She shrugs helplessly with a lie forming on her tongue. She hates that she didn’t know right away, that she didn’t have a choice - that Helen didn’t _give_ her a choice, but somehow she can’t stand the idea of Anna thinking any less of Helen, not now. She sniffs, feeling the familiar pressure of coming tears. “Anyway, we made plans to come as soon as… as soon as we knew,” she manages in a breath, wiping the threatening dampness away from her eye with her palm. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Anna shifts on the sofa, moving nearer. When she brushes her fingers through Charlotte’s hair, Charlotte leans into the touch, and then into her mother’s arms.

“I really am sorry, Mom. For everything. For disappearing, for… for this.”

Anna’s breath is warm against Charlotte’s neck when she sighs, tangling her fingers into loose, unruly curls. “It’s alright, Charlotte. You’re here now.”

She wants to say more; it’s in her voice. It is not entirely alright, but she is trying to make it so.

For the rest of the afternoon, they talk about everything but the last two years. When Helen returns to the kitchen to prepare a salad for dinner, they help in near silence. Charlotte’s mind wanders; she nearly takes the end of her finger off slicing peppers. Helen does not eat. Charlotte is ravenous, but it obviously takes some effort for Anna to clear her own plate.

They clean up in silence and stay up late talking and enjoying quiet company intermittently. When Charlotte returns to her own bedroom, Helen stands from the edge of the bed without fanfare, laptop in her arms.

“Helen?” Charlotte isn’t sure what she really wants to say when Helen turns around. The last few days have been long - today the longest of all, but for many reasons. “I… thank you,” she finally decides. If nothing else, the last few hours have been good ones. “Night.”

“Good night,” Helen replies, but does not return Charlotte’s half-hearted attempt at a smile. She merely closes the door behind her when she leaves.

*****

Well into the night Helen perches on the edge of the sofa, tapping out an email. Or trying. Instead of dealing with the request from Moscow, her thoughts wander. Escaping into her work has always been easy - but then, this _is_ work. Accompanying Charlotte now is no less important than an expedition to research or capture; it only happens that the object of this job is the very thing she’d like to escape from, if only for a while.

If Kate had been available… But would she have trusted even Kate? Over the years, she’s become an invaluable asset, proven herself time and time again; she’d be Helen’s first choice as a partner on many missions, and as a solo operative on many others. But this is Charlotte. Wherever they stand now, it’s Charlotte, and Helen can’t help but feel responsible not only for this situation, but for her. 

She’s just detected the quiet tread of feet on carpet behind her, as if her thoughts have summoned the woman herself, when she finally breaks down.

It’s quiet. Always quiet. Charlotte has seen Helen cry twice before, and even then the breakdown had been silent as a grave. The first had barely been worth mention: a few tears shed after a particularly trying few days. That had been early on in Charotte’s time in Hollow Earth, and she suspects even now that there was a great deal to that situation that she didn’t understand. The more notable occasion had been the anniversary of Ashley’s death, Charlotte thinks, putting the pieces together again with a surge of guilt. Helen simply does not cry - at least not with an audience to see it, and Charlotte is closer to her than most.

“Helen?” Charlotte whispers her name, like she’s afraid of it; she almost is. She settles herself carefully onto the sofa beside Helen, reaching out tentatively to touch her knee. “Are… are you okay?” Her fingers barely skim the fabric of Helen’s slacks before pulling away.

With the bend of her thumb brushing tears from her eye, face averted, Helen shakes her head. She’d give anything to stopper up the tears. A headache is already coming on; she chokes down a sob. “Fine.”

“I - ”

“Charlotte.”

Charlotte pauses for a moment, then presses on, barely above a whisper for fear of waking her mother. “Helen, listen. I’m sorry, I… Those things I said. I didn’t… I didn’t mean them.” Her hand lights on Helen’s knee again, but this time Helen tenses at the touch.

Clearing tears from her eyes and taking a steadying breath, Helen turns her attention to the open laptop in front of her. “Yes you did,” she murmurs. Quietly, but without a trace of forgiveness.

“No, Helen - ” Charlotte looks dumbfounded.

When Helen presses her palm into the back of Charlotte’s hand, forcing Charlotte’s fingers to splay against her knee, it’s not a gesture of comfort or out of a want for contact. She wants to make her understand. “Yes.”

“No,” Charlotte blurts out louder than she intended, trying to free her hand, but Helen pins it against her leg. After a span of silence, she sighs, eyes darting to Helen’s face. “Helen, I’d never - ”

“You did. Maybe you didn’t mean those words, but you meant what was behind them.”

Charlotte stills, and they’re both silent for a moment. “Fine.” Helen narrows her eyes, and Charlotte grits her teeth. “You’re right. You hurt me, and… but Helen, I… God, I don’t even know why I said those things!”

Another moment of silence passes, and finally Helen releases her hand. “I hurt you and you retaliated,” Helen says tersely, looking away again. There is nothing warm in her response, but she refuses to be angry. Tells herself she understands.

Easing her hand away from Helen’s knee, Charlotte swallows. “Yeah, I guess.” It’s non-committal at best, but Helen has a point. She touches Helen’s shoulder in the same hesitant way, then sighs.

“The difference,” Helen adds coolly, without so much as a blink for Charlotte’s touch, “is that I never intended to hurt you.”

Charlotte clenches her teeth, exhaling through her nose. Still, Helen is right; there’s no denying it. She’d spoken with venom, struck where she knew it would hurt. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “I know.” She traces her fingertips against the curve of Helen's shoulder. “I really am sorry.”

“I know. So am I.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know you are. The worst part is, I knew you were then.”

Helen flinches away from Charlotte’s hand, from the feather-light touch of her fingers, lowering her face into her open hand to hide the newly-threatening tears. It takes a moment to speak again; the air feels stale in her chest. “Go to bed, Charlotte. Please.”

*****

Anna wakes early, enters the room with hardly a sound. Still wearing the loose shorts and tank top she slept in, she leans into the open doorway to watch Helen for a long moment. A steaming mug is on the table beside her, her laptop open and glowing.

Helen, for her part, does not speak until spoken to.

“She loves you.”

“You're up early.”

Anna stares at Helen, Helen at the laptop. “I could say the same for you.”

“You could.”

Seating herself in a chair across from Helen, Anna rests her chin in her hands. “Unless you're up late,” she says ponderously, gaze fixed on Helen's downturned eyes.

“You could say that too.” She deletes the last three sentences with a decisive click.

There’s a span of silence before Anna begins again. “I overheard you talking.” There it is, the lilt. A trace of guilt in her voice, though her tone is more markedly pointed. She is not quite the woman who greeted Helen and Charlotte at the door.

Helen snorts. “Of course you did.” Anna’s eyes darken, but Helen merely taps out another half-hearted attempt at a sentence. “How much?”

“Only enough to understand that you’re at odds with each other right now. And, as I said, that she loves you.” Silently, Helen arches an eyebrow. Anna makes a derisive noise before adding with a trace of impatience behind her reasoning words. “Helen, I'm her mother.”

“She’s a grown woman,” Helen retorts before catching herself. Of course she's a grown woman. Anna knows this better than anyone. She would have been just as defensive of Ashley.

“I can hate you no matter her age.”

Helen pauses for a moment, considering, and then the two women share a look. Raised brows, tilted mouths. No mirth, but a shared moment. A breath later, Helen’s eyes go dark and her lips press together. Suddenly, Anna senses that she is not the only mother in the room.

“Do you love her?” Anna asks after a span, peering at Helen. But Helen is already in the kitchen, pouring hot water over a sachet of tea. “Just sugar,” she remarks as Helen reaches for the refrigerator door, and Helen returns with the cup and sugar in hand.

They've come to an understanding, as women and mothers if nothing else. Helen keeps her silence for a moment while Anna sweetens her tea, and although Anna watches her peripherally, she doesn’t press the question again, instead allowing Helen a thoughtful sip from her own mug.

“Yes.” There's no fanfare when she finally says it. “Though it would seem I've done a poor job of it lately.”

“I’m assuming you knew about my husband before she did.”

“A shrewd observation, though I'm surprised she didn't tell you herself.”

“I suspect she didn't want to paint you a villain.”

“I wouldn't have blamed her. Not really.”

“Would you blame me?” Anna asks, lips drawn tight as she examines Helen. It's the same look as yesterday, but Helen isn't unsettled by it anymore. She merely gazes back levelly, taking another sip of her tea. Anna has more to say, waits a moment before speaking. “Was it selfish, when you didn't tell her?”

Helen purses her own lips for a moment,then smiles wanly. “A little, perhaps.” If wanting her safe is selfish, so be it. There are, Helen suspects, higher authorities for judging that.

“And when you killed her?” Anna's voice is just as even, but they both recognize in that moment that this is the crux of the issue, the source of her distrust.

Helen narrows her eyes, lips twitching downward momentarily. “Her death was as much for you and your husband as for her, if not more,” she finally says, tilting her head unconsciously toward Charlotte's silent room. “She would have been safe with my people.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

Helen smiles again, the same tight smile. “There’s a lot she didn't tell you yesterday. A lot she can't tell you, but a great deal that she can. I suspect, at least, that after coming this far there's not much harm to be done. And I think it's best to let her tell it.”

They're silent again for a span, and Anna rests her chin in her hand, watching Helen thoughtfully as the other woman returns to her computer. “You remind me of someone, you know,” she says ponderously.

Helen raises a brow, exhales dismissively. “You’d be surprised how many people say that.”

Anna continues to peer at her, uncertain, as if she’s a jigsaw piece without a home. Part of a puzzle she’s solved before, but that she can’t recognize while it stands alone. The barest glimpse of a memory. “I’m sure.”


	5. Chapter 5

“How was she really able to falsify death records for you, Charlotte?” Anna asks as they stand shoulder to shoulder, washing dinner dishes. “You know there was a funeral, right?”

Charlotte swallows, then nods. “Yeah. I was, uh. I was in a safe house then.” She pauses, adjusting a drinking glass in the drying rack. “I haven’t thought about it much in a while.”

“How? Why?” At Charlotte’s sideways glance, Anna offers a stern look and passes her a plate. “She’s already told me you left out important details.”

“And she’s already told me I can tell you more. Yeah, I know, I just… don’t know how much.” Sighing, Charlotte places the plate in the drying rack and takes the next one from her mother. “Do you know how long it took me to adjust? All I knew for six months was that Helen had connections and did top secret scientific research. Then all of a sudden she drops it all on me at once. It’s hard to decide what’s safe to say and what isn’t.”

“You said it was fringe medical research.”

“It is! Sort of.” Anna freezes, and Charlotte sighs again. Out with it, then. They're already here - what's the worst that can happen? “Okay, listen. Do you remember that newsreel that went viral? It would have been right around the time I vanished. It kept getting taken down from all the major hosts, but every time you’d turn around there was another copy of it floating around somewhere. It was right after that big military incursion in Old City, in Vancouver. The lady saying that monsters were real? I’m… pretty sure someone actually made a remix of it. With pictures of Bigfoot or something, I don’t know.”

She turns to gauge Anna’s reaction, and notices that Anna has stopped washing dishes. Instead, she is merely looking at her, with a rag in her hand and her fingers half-submerged in soapy water like something Charlotte has said has pinged a memory, and she’s trying to decide where everything fits together.

“I remember. I think,” Anna says quietly after a moment. Something in her tone suggests that she knows the answer, but is either afraid of being wrong or afraid of being right, and can’t decided which one would be worse. 

“Well, I used that video to track Helen down. She never… left me a business card or anything like that. We both thought the business with my research was over and done with, I guess, and a few months after I handed everything off to Richard, I… the shit hit the fan, I guess. I didn’t tell anyone I’d stopped the research at first; I was just trying to clean up the work with the lemurs. When they found out, they just sort of appeared one day. I guess that’s when I realized that I really pissed somebody off.

“Anyway, I only just escaped, and I wound up in northern Tanzania. I was just trying to blend with the tourists as much as possible, but most of the lodging near the parks is _really_ expensive. Then I saw that video and… honestly, Mom, I don’t even know how I got to BC in one piece. I flew into Saskatoon, rented a car and told them I’d bring it back to that location and just… prayed I could still find Helen and that I’d find a way to deal with the car later. Then I found out that Helen was dead.”

Anna’s head snaps towards Charlotte, brows furrowed. Charlotte shoots back a pointed look.

“Yeah. So their organization had been flying under the radar for a _long_ time, with government funding but sorta outside of government jurisdiction, I guess. With everything leading up to that newscast, it was getting worse and worse and finally they just went underground, and Helen faked her death in the process.” Charlotte shrugs absently, toeing at the baseboard and chewing her lower lip for a moment before continuing.

“So basically, I finally tracked down somebody who knew _anything_ about them, and he put me in touch with Will - an old partner of Helen’s - who put me in a safe house. I got a new identity in the Northwest Territory because we needed to satisfy every cliche ever, and I was there for about six months. Then Will invited me to come work with them and that’s when I met Helen again.”

“She's the woman in the video,” Anna observes belatedly. It's not a question: Charlotte has as good as said so in admitting that she used it to track Helen down, but honestly, she’s known since she looked Helen in the eye early that morning, already knew deep down even as she tried to place her face. That niggling sense of familiarity, this is what it was about. The errant puzzle piece has found its home.

Charlotte nods, swallows. Knows without a doubt now that she’s crossed a line and that there’s no going back. Anna knows what kind of work they’re doing, or has an idea of it; she won’t doubt Charlotte’s word on the veracity of Helen’s words in that old newsreel. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s um. That’s Helen.”

There’s a moment of silence before Anna turns toward her again. “All that talk of monsters didn't scare you off?” she admonishes, brandishing a drinking glass at her and startling Charlotte with her tone.

“Um…” Charlotte offers up a pained grin in response and shrugs awkwardly. “No?” Anna’s eyes narrow, and Charlotte dedicates her attention to drying the glass. “On Comoros… the people who took us hostage, they were… different. Monsters - abnormals. These guys - one was bulletproof, just pulled bullets out of his skin after being shot, and one with x-ray vision or something. Oh, god, and this woman named Nicholls who screamed and broke like 3 windows. And I'm pretty sure she was ready to kill me at one point? Helen saved me though, just… came out of nowhere. All of a sudden this creepy woman with a knife is in a choke hold, you know?” She bites her lip, considering that act. She’d later referred to Helen as a ‘Doctor of Asskicking,’ swept up in adrenaline and the mystery of a woman who kept declaring that she was ‘old,’ that she’d ‘seen worse.’ It had been ingratiating and invigorating at the same time. 

She comes back to herself a moment later, realizing she’s been gesturing aimlessly, and suddenly takes a handful of silverware from Anna’s hand, blushing fiercely. “It was sort of amazing, actually,” she admits, not quite looking at her mother.

There's a long moment of silence. Charlotte clears her throat awkwardly, taking the last of the clean dishes from Anna's hand to dry.

“Anyway, um. I guess those guys were part of some really shady government experiments or something? So they'd been normal at one point, but… Helen seemed to know all about them, so… I didn't know what she did but it really didn't surprise me when she talked about abnormals on the news. I just didn't know who else could help, but I knew she had resources and had saved all our asses on Grand Comore…”

Charlotte passes the towel to Anna to dry her hands as the thoughtful silence swells between them.

“So when did you fall in love with her?” Anna eventually asks. She's behind Charlotte, heading toward the sofa, and Charlotte turns to glance at her with an awkward little laugh.

“Of course you caught on to that.”

“Of course I did,” Anna echoes gently, stroking absently at a few of Charlotte's flyaway curls as they settle onto the sofa side-by-side. “I've seen you smitten a time or two. This is different though.”

Charlotte lets her gaze cast absently over the table in front of them. “Well, a lot of good it's doing,” she murmurs bitterly. Swallows hard. “She's just here to protect us, both of us, but she can barely look at me, much less talk to me, and I - ”

She cuts herself off. Lets her face sink into her hands, elbows rested on her knees.

Anna continues to stroke her hair gently, but Charlotte can't bring herself to find much comfort in the gesture.

Finally, Anna's hand stills, and by the way she draws in a breath, Charlotte knows something is coming. She tenses reflexively, giving her mother a cautious look.

“I know she knew about Sacha, Charlotte; I know how she hurt you… but god, what did you do to her?”

Charlotte blinks, caught off-guard by the revelation. Still, it's less surprise, more shame, that floods over her. She keeps her eyes trained downward, and her cheeks flush scarlet as she favors her lip. But there is no denying or avoiding this.

“I… god. She, uh. She had a daughter.” She swallows hard, gaze flickering across Anna’s face. The older woman’s expression darkens as if she suspects she knows where this is going, and Charlotte’s eyes dart off to the side again. She focuses somewhere on the middle distance past Anna’s shoulder, tears glistening in her eyes. Somehow, she feels it all tumbling out - can't stop herself, doesn't want to, when the confession begins. “She died a few years back. I brought her up at a bad time. God, I - I was so mad about dad, and - and hurt, and I wanted her to hurt too, and - ”

Charlotte sinks into Anna’s arms, weeping, and Anna is torn. She’s angry and hurt for a stranger, angry and hurt for her daughter, ashamed for her daughter. But her arms wrap around Charlotte as she clings to her, sobbing, and Charlotte continues her desperate confession.

“I was so mad, and I didn’t think. I’m so sorry, mom. All she wanted to do was protect me - us - and I, it was so cruel and I…”

_Went for the jugular,_ she wants to say, but the words don't quite come out. Instead, she chokes down a sob.

*****

She comes to a while later, throat, head and chest hurting in equal measure. Neck too, she realizes with a groggy moan, turning her head a little against Anna's lap. She doesn't remember lying down, much less falling asleep. A bit of hair falls into her face, and Anna catches it up wordlessly with her fingers, pushing it back behind her ear.

They stay like that for a span: Charlotte's head cushioned on Anna's thigh, Anna curled into the corner of the sofa, one hand rested on Charlotte's head. They don't speak, though Anna knows Charlotte is awake.

There's a low hum from the other room, the sound of the shower running. It's comforting, in a way. White noise in a domestic bubble. Briefly, Charlotte wonders when she'll next wake in Helen's bed, to the sound of Helen's shower or hair dryer.

She's never had a proper fight with Helen, never been more than a bit exasperated with her. Wonders if this is enough to change everything they've become over the past year.

“I think I'm gonna go lay down,” Charlotte says at length, sitting up.

“Do you want to use my bed?” Anna asks, watching as Charlotte scrubs at her face.

“No, it's um. It's fine. Helen won't mind.” She hopes. “Give her an excuse to come out I guess. I don't think she wants to interrupt us.”

Anna's hand slides down to Charlotte's, squeezing it gently before she releases it to allow Charlotte to stand. “Okay.”

Charlotte doesn't really mean to bother Helen. She has every intention of lying down and likely being asleep by the time Helen is out of the shower. She's exhausted, both tired and tired of being in her own body. Fights the knot in her throat with frustration. She doesn't mean to bother Helen at all.

Then she enters the bedroom. Notices the loofah balanced on top of a pile of clothes and takes the whole pile without a second thought. It's not like Helen to forget things.

She knocks twice on the bathroom door, but doesn't wait for an answer. Opens it and settles the clothes on the edge of the sink, moves to the shower and sticks her arm in past the curtain. 

“I think you forgot this,” she says a little hoarsely, lamely, chewing her lip after.

A moment later, the curtain moves a little. A sliver of Helen appears, like an image from a broken mirror. She leans against the shower wall, hand still pushing the curtain aside. Charlotte awkwardly lowers her own hand a little.

Helen studies Charlotte for a moment. For the first time since the car she doesn't really look angry or cold. Sad, maybe. Concerned. Brows furrowed, wet fringe swept back to reveal each little line on her forehead. Charlotte must not have been asleep for long, because based on Helen's expression, she still looks a fright.

“Thank you,” Helen murmurs, finally taking the loofah from Charlotte's hand with a sad whisper of a smile.

Charlotte swallows. “I, um.” Pauses, gets a better breath. “I could do your back.”

There's the barest moment of hesitation. Then: “Alright. Thank you.” Helen passes the loofah, wet and soapy, back to Charlotte before turning from her.

Charlotte pulls the curtain a bit further open, blocking the draft with her own body, and scrubs Helen's back thoroughly. Attentively. Slow, small circles, free hand wrapping around Helen's arm as if to hold her steady, though she hardly uses enough force to warrant it. “Helen, I - ”

“Don't.”

“No, please listen.”

“I know, Charlotte.” For a moment, the quiet forcefulness of the words lingers between them. Then Helen turns and slides a hand behind Charlotte's neck in one smooth, calculated movement, and Charlotte blinks at her with surprise.

Charlotte lifts a hand in reply, stroking Helen's forearm, then her elbow, tracing a path to her shoulder. She holds on, fingers digging into Helen's wet skin for purchase, and moves until the side of the tub is all but bruising her shin. Helen doesn't retreat, but doesn't speak. Watches Charlotte silently, blue eyes searching her face.

“I'm so sorry,” Charlotte musters at last.

The whisper comes out louder than she expects, cutting through the hum of the fan and the heavy stream of water ricocheting off the shower curtain and walls in a cacophony of pitch. She leans her head against Helen's, pressing into her until it actually hurts a little. In response, Helen's grip on her tightens, pads of her fingers pressing hard into the back of Charlotte's neck.

“I know,” Helen murmurs, thumb moving against her skin, through her hair. “I know.” She sighs. “You're here to be with your mother, Charlotte. To mourn your father. So stop worrying about me. Go. _Mourn._ ”

“Helen, I - ” Charlotte cuts herself off, breathes in the subtle smell of rosemary in the heavy, wet air. “I can't do anything knowing that we - not knowing…”

Helen withdraws a little, eyes trained intently on Charlotte when she does. She purses her lips briefly, searching Charlotte's face, then sighs. “We'll talk about it later, Charlotte.” At Charlotte's quick exhale, Helen frowns. “We will. _Later,_ ” she stresses, and Charlotte finds she believes her. Hopes it’s not all show. “Now go on,” she says with a curt nod of her head, not mean or rude, but certainly dismissive. Underneath the stern tone is a plea, the best kind Helen knows how to make without adding another chink to her armor.

Charlotte recognizes it for what it is, knows Helen does not tear herself open easily for the world to see. Wonders if, somewhere under the relatively calm façade, Helen is crumbling. Knows on some level that she is and hates the thought of it.

Charlotte retreats because she can't think of anything better to do, and when Helen leaves the bathroom several minutes later, half-dressed and toweling her hair dry with one hand, she finds Charlotte curled onto her side in the bed with her back to Helen. She stands there for a span, watching Charlotte Lowers her towel and let’s silence fill the room. Finally she settles herself onto the bed behind Charlotte and moves closer, leaning onto an elbow as she slips a hand into her hair. She brushes it back, fingers carding through the damp, tangled strands from where she had her hand in Charlotte's hair earlier. Leans down, presses a kiss to Charlotte's temple; Charlotte exhales heavily at the touch, squeezing her eyes shut as Helen rests her brow against Charlotte's head.

“I love you,” Helen murmurs into the shell of her ear, voice strained. “I don't know if that helps either of us, but I do.”


End file.
